


Inappropriate Desires

by Caius



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Doom can't deal with his feelings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caius/pseuds/Caius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doom wants Namor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inappropriate Desires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tentaklingon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tentaklingon/gifts).



Doom could not believe this.

He was Victor Von Doom of Latveria, the strongest and smartest and most powerful sorcerer and scientist in the world. Namor was so far beneath him mentally that they were hardly even of the same species! And although Atlantis might once have been more powerful than his own Latveria, it had declined so precipitously during Namor's reign that it was Doom doing Namor the favor by extending a hand of alliance. 

He clutched the hand to his chest, no, clutched the gauntlet to his chestplate, and when had that become a distinction that mattered? Doom's armor was as much his own as the fragile flesh beneath it, more so, for it was infused with his magic and his intellect and embodied his power as no flesh ever could!

Not his flesh. He remembered, unwillingly. Remembered the strong near-naked body, its shameless sensual power enough to bring whole countries to their knees, to drown even Latveria's glories in the pleasures of the flesh...

Namor. Prince of Atlantis, from his ridiculous hair to his tiny useless wings..

Perfection of flesh, as Doom was perfection of intellect and spirit. 

He should be Doom's. Must be Doom's, like Atlantis and Latveria and all the world beyond. 

And yet. Doom stared down at himself, stared down at his hand, undid and tossed aside his gauntlet carelessly, stared at the pale flesh as he never had before, never had bothered, not until now, not until Namor....

It had seemed innocuous. Namor was not a sorcerer, not a biologist, there was nothing at all he should have been able to do with Doom's bare hand save brute violence. 

Nothing! Nothing at all, and in fact he had done nothing! Just...held his hand, in the same way that his gauntlet had been held many times before, in the same way Richards had once held Doom's hand, and it should have changed nothing.

But there was something in that grip, something in the smooth touch of skin and skin, something about how Namor's fingers had touched Doom's palm, something--something that had marked Doom as strongly as a binding spell, even though there was no magic in it. 

Something that made Doom regret that Namor had not touched him more. Made him want to take off the rest of his armor and throw his naked body at Namor's mercy, made him want pleasures that he had not bothered with since before Richards, that he watched with amusement and no desire for participation.

He had snapped his armor back on and went on with the deal, on with the plot, although he had forgotten quite why he had intended on betraying the Atlantean (to have him in your bed, at your mercy, stripped of his defenses and proven to be no more than a man after all--but even that idea seemed hollow at the thought of the reverse). 

Doom's bare hand, his marked hand, had slipped between his legs, was touching the hinges that would allow him to relieve himself, cleanse himself of these desires--but, too late. His radio crackled to life. 

"Doom! Namor requires your services!" 

"In Doom's own time," he growled, perfunctorily; but found himself lacking in the desire to refuse Namor anything at all.

He found his gauntlet and securely strapped it back on, whispering to himself a steadying spell in the few moments he gave himself before rushing back to Namor.

Back to his beloved.


End file.
